


Transcendence

by MadameRed



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: College AU, I promise, JeanMarco Week, M/M, angry!marco, because i know you're not tired of them either, is best marco, sassy!marco, that was my goal, there is nothing sad in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameRed/pseuds/MadameRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything they are, everything they've done, the people they've become, it's all been legendary.<br/>A series of short stories and drabbles written for Jeanmarco week 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faith Enough for the Two of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunk Marco flips his shit and leaves his friends stunned and his boyfriend aroused.
> 
> Prompt: Insecurity

The party was fun; Ymir’s house parties always were. Their junior year of university had just begun, and she had decided that a celebration was in order. The whole ‘crew’ was there; Connie had dubbed their group of friends “The 104 Division” in memory of the elementary school that brought them together so many years ago, PS 104. 

They’re mostly in the kitchen, which is large and spacious, while the other guests are mingling in hallways, the living room, and the basement. Jean, Marco, Christa, and Ymir shared the house, and between the four of them, they lived comfortably. Ymir sat on the counter and Christa leaned against it, comfortably settled between her girlfriend’s legs. Marco, Eren, Connie, and Mikasa were embroiled in a vicious game of strip Go Fish, because poker was currently beyond the capabilities of their inebriated minds. Armin stood behind Eren, his arms draped over the other man’s shoulders, and he would occasionally shoot Mikasa a hint as to what cards the brunet possessed. 

Jean was losing an arm wrestling match to Annie, but only because Sasha kept poking his sides and dropping ice cubes down the back of his shirt. Bertholdt was settled on the floor at their feet, playing with Marco’s puppy, and Reiner was standing behind Annie, braiding her loose hair. 

Music was playing loudly and shrieks of joy and laughter could be heard throughout the house. And then Eren opened his mouth.

"Oi, horseface!" he called, craning his head around Armin to look at Jean. Jean scowled and his eyes flick over to Eren. Annie quickly took advantage of his distraction and slammed his hand into the table. Sasha whooped loudly, ‘Score one for the ladies!’ and toasted Annie with a can of beer. The blond woman smiled, just slightly, at Sasha, and light pink blush spread across her cheeks when Reiner kissed the top of her head. 

"God damnit, Jaegar!" Jean swore. Eren held up his hands in mock surrender. Their mutual dislike for one another had faded over the years to a friendly, if passionate, rivalry. Eren still took advantage of horse jokes every time the opportunity presented itself; Jean’s revenge was more subtle, in that he preferred to out-perform Eren both academically and athletically. He didn’t typically lord it over the brunet (anymore), but it was always there, and that fact made Jean smirk.

"Marco told me that they put you in charge of training the service puppies.  _Why_  didn’t you say anything?” Eren whined. Jean puckered his lips and mock-glared at Marco, who just shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"Whaaat, you’re training  _puppies?!_ " Sasha squealed. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "That’s so  _cool_ , Jean!” He fought to disentangle himself from her, but she had a vise grip on him. Christa smiled kindly at him.

"That’s really awesome, Jean. Those puppies are really going to help people," she complimented. A murmur of agreement went through their group. Ymir flicked her gaze to Marco, who was smiling fondly at his boyfriend. She’d known Marco the longest, and was one of two people (the other being Jean) who knew that Marco’s childhood dog, Dancer, had actually been a service dog, assigned to him to deal with his twin brother’s early death. He’d only told Jean about this recently, when his partner had been chosen for the vacant position. 

"I mostly train the students to train the puppies, but yeah," Jean said, somewhat sheepishly. He averted his gaze from his friends, having given up on prising Sasha’s arms from his person. She was a cuddly drunk, and there was no such thing as escaping her affection once she got her hands on you. She’d perched herself in his lap and continued munching on trail mix with one hand.

"Why didn’t you tell us?" Mikasa asked. 

"Probably because he knows he’ll crash and burn." A new voice, high and condescending, entered the room. Eleven pairs of eyes looked up to see Hitch walk in. Jean scoffed and looked down at the bag of trail mix in Sasha’s lap. Was this crazy bitch psychic or something? 

Jean had never had A+ confidence, like Eren (despite Jean outclassing Eren in everything he attempted, Eren still oozed confidence). He always doubted himself, always second guessed his decisions. Marco was helping tremendously, because the guy truly believed that Jean was destined to do really amazing things. So Jean had been excited to tell Marco about being put in charge of the service puppies, but he faltered when it came to telling his friends. He knew that they’d all be happy for him, and would be proud of him. They were the best group of friends anyone could ask for, which is why he had such issues when it came to telling them. If he were to fail (and the voice that told him he would indeed fail still wasn’t totally gone), he would just disappoint them. He couldn’t bear the thought of letting them all down.

Ymir swung her leg over Christa’s head and hopped off the counter, stalking into the living room with a shout of, “Who brought Hitch the Bitch?”

"Jean is going to do just  _fine_ , Hitch,” Armin said tersely. 

"You sure about that, He-Man?" the blond wondered. Annie bristled in her chair, still looking threatening even with her hair in braided pigtails. Eren and Mikasa exchanged somewhat worried looks. Annie was fond of Armin and hated Hitch more fervently than anyone else in their group. Annie was also absolutely  _terrifying_  in her ability to rearrange someone’s face, and was the reigning champion of the Women’s Kickboxing League at the university three years running. 

"Considering you were at the bottom of our statistics class last year, and I was at the top, I’d say I’m pretty sure," Armin replied curtly, tilting his chin upward just slightly. Eren smirked and gave Armin’s hip a squeeze. Annie relaxed a little, a pleased, if sadistic, little smile on her face. Hitch didn’t bat an eyelash; she just shrugged.

"Maybe you’re right, Armin. He might just be a natural at training dogs. After all, he’s got a bitch in his lap right now!" 

A hand slammed down on a table with enough force to knock over several beer cans. A chair fell back onto the tile with a loud clatter. Just about every set of eyes snapped up to Annie, but she was still seated, and her blue eyes were wide as she stared past everyone. Jean, also, was staring in shock at Marco. 

"What is your  _problem_?” he demanded. Everyone was gaping at him now. None of them had ever heard Marco so much as raise his voice, except in laughter. And now they looked on, shellshocked, as their sweet, passive, calm friend glared broadswords at Hitch. His brow was furrowed and he was fighting back a snarl. His hands were balled into fists and the veins in his forearms were pronounced. Even Hitch looked somewhat startled, but she regained herself quickly. That was the infuriating thing about her: she was like a fucking Weeble. 

"First of all, you crazy twat," Marco began venomously (Christa audibly gasped), "Sasha is the polar opposite of a bitch." Jean’s jaw dropped. Marco rarely ever cursed, and  _never_  with ill intent. He’d had a hard enough time convincing him that dirty talk in the bedroom didn’t mean that he was being cruel. “The only thing smaller than her bitch level is your IQ.” Reiner snorted and Ymir could be heard laughing raucously from the other room. 

"You tell her, freckles!" she called. 

"Who do you think you  _are_?” the brunet demanded. “Normal people don’t come to a party and insult the owner of the fucking house.” Jean’s eyes were impossibly wide. Was this  _his_  Marco? He’d never heard such ferocity in his boyfriend’s voice. He knew that he should probably intervene and lead Marco away from the situation; he would, when his rage-high wore off, feel miserably guilty and would be nigh on intolerable for a week. He knew he should take Marco aside and try to calm him down, but his mouth had run dry and he didn’t think he could talk, let alone move to stop him. 

"Jean is going to train those damn dogs and he’s going to be great at it like he is at everything else," Marco growled. His brown eyes, which were normally bright and warm, had darkened to a shade that Jean hadn’t ever seen. His fists clenched and unclenched and the muscles in his forearms flexed; he played lacrosse in high school and apparently, even three years later, had not lost any muscle definition. Jean swallowed hard. "I don’t know what you had to do to get someone to let you out of the sewer you live in-"

"Oh, my god," Jean muttered. He didn’t really know when his thoughts of  _'I should calm Marco down'_  turned into  _'I should get Marco out of those clothes'_ , but he remained transfixed on his boyfriend, who was becoming sexier with every twitch of his eyebrow. Sasha chuckled uncomfortably and slid off of Jean’s lap.

"You should take care of that, Jean," she teased, pointing to the raging hard-on he hadn’t realized he’d developed.

"-but you probably convinced them the same way you got into this college in the first place-"

"Oh, I’m on it," Jean almost groaned, too aroused to be embarrassed. He stood and steadied himself on the table as the blood rushed to his head. By this point, Ymir had poked her head back into the kitchen and was grinning like a maniac. In fact, all of their friends had gotten over the initial shock of Marco’s outburst and we all wearing incredibly smug expressions. 

"-by sucking so much dick that it finally got cheaper to send you to school instead of pay you for for it."

If it had been anyone else in their group that had talked like that, Sasha would have ‘Ooooohhhhh’d!’ and Connie probably would have dumped water on Hitch’s head ‘for the burn’. But it wasn’t Reiner or Eren or Ymir laying the verbal smackdown on someone. It was Marco. Kind to a fault, generous, peacekeeping Marco. No one moved.

Except Jean, who grabbed hold of Marco’s wrist and pulled him along behind him as he stalked out of the kitchen. Ymir whistled at them as they passed her. 

"Let me go, Jean, I’m not done-" 

"Damn straight you’re not," Jean replied. He knew very well that all of his friends knew that he was dragging Marco off to have his way with him. He didn’t really give a damn - nearly all of them had walked in on each other in various stages of undress (Bertholdt still blushed furiously anytime he saw Armin, Eren, and chocolate scented/flavoured anything in the same room). The only thing Jean was concerned with was getting Marco’s clothes off as soon as possible.

Hitch actually had the decency to look properly put in her place, for a moment, at least. When Ymir whistled, however, her smirk was back in its usual place.

"Who’s going to suck dick no-"

Her sentence was cut off by the garbled, pained groan that people made when Annie introduced her fist to their face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ee okay so Jean's insecurity isn't really the main focus of this. I started with writing an angry!marco fic because someone mentioned it on Tumblr and it just kind of melted into Jeanmarco week. Sassy!FreckledJesus is my favourite thing in the world. 
> 
>  
> 
> Jeanmarco week has also been a challenge to myself. I REFUSE to write anything sad and there will be NO dead boyfriends here, so it's been a little difficult sometimes, but I have enjoyed it immensely.
> 
> Hurr, that's it for this one methinks?


	2. At the Strangest of Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean can't imagine any scenario in which he would motivate anyone to talk to him, ever. Especially Marco.
> 
> Prompt: Inspiration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the crap summary and crap title and crap chapter and general all over crap of this. I should bake you all some cookies to make up for it.

It started in middle school. Jean tried, in his own incredibly awkward, antisocial way, to get Marco’s attention. Marco was a little shy, but he was surrounded with friends. He made them so easily. Jean tried making friends with Marco’s friends. He wanted to tear Eren’s head off within five minutes of meeting him. Armin and Mikasa were glued to Eren’s sides, so they were out of the question. Annie, Bertholdt, and Reiner were an odd bunch, and honestly, Annie scared him a little. Sasha was crazy, Connie was annoying, and Christa was guarded fiercely by Ymir. 

He tried out for the soccer team that Marco was on. Jean wasn’t so proud of that memory, and sometimes swore that he could still taste dirt. 

He snuck into the guidance office during a fire drill at the beginning of the semester in their freshman year of high school and changed two of his classes so that he was taking what Marco was. The first day of both of them, it was announced that the classes were too full; Marco was one of six students in each class to volunteer to take them next semester. All of this happened while Jean was out sick with the flu.

Failed attempts at getting the other boy’s attention had Jean desperately wanting to wear a blinking shirt that said “Notice Me!” and parade through the halls. However, the population of the school detested him enough. He didn’t need to add fuel to their fire. He had no friends. He was cranky and irascible and always picked fights (which was probably why he had no friends). He fought with his dad too often to be healthy, despite knowing that he worked two jobs to support himself and his son, and genuinely only wanted Jean to be happy. 

He didn’t enjoy being as grumpy as he was. But something was missing. Some part of him felt that he didn’t belong here, in this podunk town in the middle of nowhere. Part of him felt like he  _should_  have friends, but he had no idea how to go about gaining them. Part of him felt like he could open up if he just found the key that fit. And he felt like Marco was that key, that answer. 

The only time he ever found comfort was when he was sitting outside, strumming on his guitar. It was an old, beat up acoustic that his dad had given him for his birthday when he was ten. He was self taught, but he’d had a lot of time to practice. It had started out as something to do, something calm and nondestructive. It quickly became a passion, a vice, an escape from all of the nothing that he felt. He also played the piano fairly well, but wheeling around a keyboard would just make people stare after he worked so hard to become invisible. 

A senior in high school, halfway through the year, and instead of going to catch the bus home, Jean was sitting on the bleachers of the empty stadium, playing his guitar. It was a sad melody, almost like a lullaby straight out of The Addams Family. The song was one of his own composure. He’d come up with it back in eighth grade, during lunch over the course of the year. He wouldn’t admit to anyone, ever, that Marco had been the sole driving force behind the song. Days spent thinking about him, watching him, dwelling on the hole in his own chest that he was sure that Marco had somehow left culminated in this song. He’d played so many variations of it over the years, but this passionate, agonizing melody was the only thing that felt appropriate at that moment.

He hummed along; he had a fairly decent singing voice, but he reserved that for when he was home alone in the shower. He was so absorbed in his guitar that he didn’t even realize that someone had sat themselves down next to him. 

"Um…"

Jean jumped, plucking odd notes in his surprise. He looked up to to his right and couldn’t stop his eyes from going wide.  _Oh my fucking god._  And then his brain ceased at least seventy percent of its productivity. 

"You’re Jean, right?" Marco asked. Jean, unable to speak yet, nodded dumbly.  _I’m acting like some freshman girl, oh my actual fucking fuck._  

"Uh, Marco, was it?" His voice came out as nearly a squeak and he wanted to kick himself. Marco nodded.

"You, uh, play really well," he observed, somewhat shyly. Jean nervously scratched a fingernail on one of the strings.

"Thanks, I guess," he answered. Marco stared down at his hands, fiddled with his thumbs. Jean held his breath; he didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what Marco was going to say. Hell, he didn’t know why Marco was even talking to him. After so many years of trying and trying and failing, over and over again, he’d stopped imagining what it would be like to actually talk to him. He’d stopped dreaming that it would ever happen. 

"Look, I’ve got a reason for being here-" Marco began. Jean shrugged.

"You don’t need a reason. I don’t own the bleachers," he said. Marco tilted his head to the side, just slightly, and gave him an odd look. Then he smiled, and shook his head.

"I don’t even know you. We’ve been in the same school district all our lives and we’ve never spoken a word to each other," he said quietly. "I guess that makes us strangers." He looked up at Jean expectantly. "Can I tell you something?"

Jean blinked at Marco. He swallowed hard; swallowed his nervousness, swallowed the giggle he felt like letting escape. He swallowed his anger; anger at years of trying, hurting, being defeated and giving up. Anger at Marco for only now suddenly deciding to talk to him… No, he couldn’t be angry at Marco. Not when he was here now, trying to confess something to him.

"Um.."

"You play really well. Eren tells me you’re the best in music class," he confessed. Jean looked a little taken aback; he’d forgotten that Jaeger was in his music class. As he processed things, he thought about how he could have forgotten or not noticed: Eren played percussion rather poorly, which is intended to mean that he wailed away on the drums without a care in the world.

"T-thanks," Jean stammered, much to his own annoyance.

"Sure! Anyway, I wanted to ask… I know it’s unconventional and probably really awkward, since we’ve never really spoken before," Marco carried on, gesticulating as he twisted around to reach for something by his side. It was a guitar of his own. "But I really would like if you’d.. consider teaching me how to play."

Jean stared at Marco’s hopeful, shy face with an unreadable expression on his own. He liked to pride himself on his steely resolve; the last kid who had asked him to instruct them was promptly sent away. The guitar was  _his_  thing. The only thing he had, the only thing that people couldn’t damage or deny him. He didn’t want to share it with anyone else. He knew how silly it was, considering the fact that he certainly wasn’t the only person in the world to play guitar. 

Now Marco,  _Marco fucking Bodt_ , was sitting next to him, talking to him,  _because he could play guitar_. There was a tiny, perpetually broken piece of his brain that was thrashing about wildly, screaming  _I told you so!_ at the top of its lungs (he’d nixed the idea of playing guitar at lunch in high school or on the bus). Jean let out a shaky breath, stifled the voice in his head, and nodded.

"Sure, I can try."

Marco smiled at him, bright and open and friendly, and Jean thought that maybe he should put a little of that smile into his song.


	3. How Jean Came to Hate Gotham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco is pretty positive that after this Halloween, Jean will never, ever want to watch a Batman movie again.
> 
> Prompt: Reincarnation

In retrospect, Jean blamed Ymir, Connie, and Mikasa, in that order.

Damn Ymir for insisting that they all go to the party. Connie reminded them that it was a  _Halloween_  party and they’d be kicked out if they weren’t in costume. Then Ymir came back and told them to be there or she’d  _find_  them. And damn Mikasa for being so eerily good at doing makeup.

Jean initially just wasn’t going to attend, and he would simply hide from Ymir. But Marco had flashed him puppy-eyes and his resolve crumbled. He brightened considerably when Marco suggested he go as Batman. It was also heartening to burst into the commons of the dormitory and declare that no one else could be Batman and watch Connie’s dreams crash. 

The party was being held in the courtyard of their college. Open tents had been set up, housing food and drinks. Orange and purple lights and lanterns were crisscrossed in the air between the buildings. Glowing plastic bats, ghosts, and toilet paper hung from the trees. Styrofoam tombstones were scattered here and there, and fake, bloodied legs stuck out from shrubberies. Several fog machines provided ample faux fog for ground cover.

Jean generally detested Halloween. He tried to pretend that it was because he was a nineteen year old man in college and he’d outgrown it years ago. That was the excuse that, thankfully, everyone bought. His friends looked forward to it, but they had the luxury of not remembering their past lives.

They didn’t remember the blood in the streets, the titans screeching and dropping their friends down their gullets. They didn’t remember Marco dying, or Annie, Bertholdt, and Reiner’s betrayal. They didn’t remember the agonizing pain they’d lived through. They didn’t remember losing their friends and family, didn’t remember humanity being scrunched up behind walls. They didn’t remember joining the military as children to either fight for humanity or reach the safety of the inner wall. 

Things were different in this life. Marco had lived past sixteen (though it had been the most agonizing year of Jean’s life). Annie, Reiner, and Bertholdt remained loyal to their friends. Mikasa had still been adopted by Eren and his parents, but she didn’t remember the death of her parents. 

Jean tried to remember these things, that this was  _reality_  now, despite their former lives. It didn’t stop the nightmares, though. It didn’t stop him from spacing out in the middle of class and having to be physically removed from the room because he had jumped from desk to desk, screaming for Connie to  _move, now!_  

So while other college students pointed at the fake, mangled limbs in the shrubs and trees, Jean cringed and looked away. Fortunately, he was saved by Christa and Ymir, who were dressed as Princess Peach and Mario. Christa smiled and embraced him.

"That Batman costume is really great, Jean! Where did you get it?" she asked. Jean shrugged, lifting the face mask.

"Beats me. Marco found it online. Probably some cosplay ‘site of Sasha’s," he guessed. 

"Where is he, anyhoo? He’s the one that wanted you here," Ymir observed, squinting around. 

"Mikasa is still doing his makeup. I have no idea what he’s dressed as, he wouldn’t tell me," Jean replied. 

"Maybe he’ll be Wonder Woman!" Christa giggled. Ymir tilted her head to the side, considering this.

"He’s got the legs for it. Oh, there’s Bert.. hey, why’s he a carrot top?" 

Jean and Christa looked up to see Bertholdt wearing a bright red wig, dressed in black robes. They caught his attention and waved him over. 

“ _Red hair, and a hand-me-down robe?_ " Christa mock-sneered, putting her hands on her hips and leaning forward. " _You must be a Weasley!_ " Bertholdt smiled at her and nodded. "Where are Reiner and Annie?"

"Annie was getting us drinks; Reiner was supposed to be helping her, but Voldemort challenged him to a duel," he said. Murmuring to herself, Christa sashayed off to assist Annie. 

Connie arrived dressed as Trevor from Grand Theft Auto V, and Sasha arrived shortly afterward as Sailor Jupiter. 

"Oh, Batsy," she said, looking at Jean. "Marco should be down soon. His costume is great!" She winked at him and flounced off to dance. Armin dressed as Howl, and Eren was boasting that his Buster Sword wasn’t compensating for anything. 

Another fifteen minutes passed, and Marco still hadn’t shown up. Jean excused himself from his friends (they had been gathered around Reiner- er, Harry, and Ann-mione as they dueled Voldemort and Bellatrix) and went looking for him. He found Mikasa, dressed as Amelia Earhart, first.

"Hey, there you are," she greeted. 

"Yeah, hey. Where’s Marco? He’s the one who dragged me here anyway," he grumbled. 

"I think I saw him over in the pizza line. We looked for you, but we couldn’t find you. Too big a crowd around the wizards," she chuckled. Jean rolled his eyes.

"Tch, tell me about it. Reiner’s a little too into it," he said. 

"Don’t worry. We’ll get you a wand and a robe for next year," she said with a smirk. Jean was a geek at heart, and she knew it. She patted his chest and walked off. Jean made his way over to the food tent and scanned the students in line. A smile fell across his face, still unmasked, when he spotted Marco.

His boyfriend was dressed in a crisp white suit that was tailored to fit him exactly the way a suit should. Jean’s mouth ran a little dry as he drank in his boyfriend’s tall figure. He was flipping a coin in his hand repeatedly, staring down at it, his other hand jammed in a pocket. Sticking his fingers in his mouth, he cat-called. Several people turned around, but Jean knew that Marco would recognize it. He watched as Marco’s cheek rose in a smile. Jean returned it, and then Marco turned toward him, not moving from his spot in line.

Jean froze. His eyes widened in absolute terror. His lips moved in a grim mantra of  _no, no, no, no,_  and he shook his head, just barely. No, this wasn’t possible, Marco was  _fine_ , he had just been with Mikasa, there were no titans, there were no titans,  _there were no titans, so why is half of his face so mangled?_

He dropped to his knees without being aware that they’d lost their strength to support him. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the rapidly watering image of Marco rushing toward him. His hands came up and he dug his palms into his eyebrows, biting back a scream. Marco’s hands wrapped around his wrists as he, too, sunk to his knees. 

"Jean!" he called. Ymir, who was closest to them, quietly moved closer to stand near them. All of their friends knew about Jean’s episodes. They’d happened less and less as they got older, but they all knew they could happen, and were often triggered by the strangest things. 

Marco eased Jean’s hands away from his eyes, but he took one look at Marco and moaned pitifully, shaking his head and trying to pull away from him. Marco was accustomed to Jean’s meltdowns, and he generally had a good idea of how to soothe him. Without hesitation, he pulled off the latex half-mask that Mikasa had painstakingly applied and blended. He picked at it and got nearly all of it off, tossing it to the ground. He grasped at Jean’s wrists again and pulled them away from his face.

"Jean, I’m right here. It’s me, Marco. I’m okay, Jean. Look at me. Hey," he murmured, keeping his voice carefully calm. Jean slowly raised his head to look at Marco through red rimmed, watery eyes. He lifted a trembling hand to his boyfriend’s face and touched where the latex had been. Marco covered Jean’s hand with his own. "See, freckles and skin. I’m fine, Jean," he whispered. With an agonized moan that made Ymir look back in concern, he fell against Marco’s chest, letting the other man wrap strong arms around him. He did his best not to sob, but shudders wracked his body from suppressing them. He clutched at Marco’s two-tone suit, burying his face into it. 

They’d attracted rather unwanted attention. A few guys that Jean never got along with had taken note. Ymir prevented them from getting any closer, but they were slowly ganging up on her. Christa, petite and unintimidating in her pink dress, caught Reiner’s eye and jerked her head toward her girlfriend. 

"The fuck is Kirschtein cryin’ like a bitch for?" one of them asked. 

"What did you say about him?" Ymir demanded. She peeled off her fake mustache and held it out to Christa.

"Hold my mustache."

"Kick his ass, baby, I’ve got your mustache," Christa said sweetly while glaring daggers at the men. And before she was even done winking at her girlfriend, Ymir turned and caught the one who had insulted Jean with a left hook. Christa winced and took a step back just as Reiner arrived. 

"Ooh," he grinned, pulling one of the guys off of Ymir’s back. "Flipendo!" he shouted as he tossed him to the side.

With the onlookers taken care of, Marco was free to help Jean to his feet. Jean clung to him, refusing to take his fingers from Marco’s arms. He ushered him around to the front of the library (the back of the building was by the courtyard), where Jean collapsed gratefully on the stairs, pulling Marco down with him. Jean pressed himself as close to Marco’s side as he could get without actually sitting in his lap, gripping his arm with one hand and caressing his cheek with another.

It didn’t matter that the latex mask and makeup had been on the left side of his face instead of the right. What  _did_  matter was seeing half of Marco’s face as blood and sinew and tendons outside of his dreams. Between the cool autumn air and Marco’s warmth next to him, he slowly calmed down. 

"You wanna talk about it?" Marco asked quietly. Jean shook his head. He knew it would probably make his life a lot easier if he told at least Marco about their former lives, but he just couldn’t bring himself to tell the whole, agonizing story. And who was to say that his friends would even believe him? No, it was far better that his friends remained blissfully unaware. If only one of them had to suffer while the others lived happy lives… well, he loved them enough to handle that. Maybe, if their souls were recycled again, he’d get a chance to be a happy idiot. 

"You wanna go home?" 

"No. I think… I think I’m okay now," Jean said, wiping the drying tears from his cheeks. "Just don’t put that mask back on."

Marco chuckled and pressed a kiss to Jean’s temple. “I’ll have Ann-mione cast a healing spell on me, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so Marco means that Ann-mione will cast a healing spell on him to explain the lack of mangled flesh. Yeah.
> 
> Ymir and Christa - Mario and Princess Peach, respectively.  
> Annie, Reiner, and Bertholdt - Hermione, Harry, and Ron.  
> Mikasa - Amelia Earhart  
> Armin - Howl  
> Eren - Cloud Strife  
> Sasha - Sailor Jupiter  
> Connie - Trevor, GTA V  
> Jean - Batman  
> Marco - Two-Face I'M SO SORRY


	4. A Lifetime Spent Wanting You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had enough passion to transcend lifetimes. From the beginning to the end of each one, they craved one another.
> 
> Prompt: Longing

The grew up next to one another. In a glorious cliche, their bedroom windows faced each other on the sides of their houses.

Nearly from Jean’s birth, the two were inseparable. Marco’s mother often watched Jean. At one, Marco had no concept of what a newborn was, and yet he was gentle and tender as he pat Jean on the head. 

At ages five and six, their parents had taken out pieces of the fence that separated their yards and built them a clubhouse; half of it was in Jean’s yard, and the other half was in Marco’s. Doors were built on either side for easy access. The boys were thrilled when their parents deemed it safe to play in, and they spent most of their childhood holed within, giggling the days away.

Marco was a friendly, kind boy. Despite his good nature, some children still teased him. They would take off when Jean came barreling toward them, screaming like a maniac. He would wipe the tears from Marco’s freckled cheeks and hold him until his sniffles subsided. 

Not all of the new kids in their lives made fun of Marco. At eight and nine, Marco began making new friends. Jean grumbled about sharing, but was mollified by the fact that Marco told a new person, every day, that Jean was his “bestest friend”. Also, none of the others knew the secret password to their clubhouse, so he got Marco to himself after school every day. They played board games and traded Pokemon (Jean didn’t tell Marco that he’d nicked Eren’s link cable because he’d lost his own). More often than not, they’d end up passed out, curled up together in one beanbag chair. Marco’s mother would usually carry them to her house and give Mrs. Kirschtein a call. Neither parent could bear the looks of heartbreak on their sons faces when they were rustled out of sleep and the other wasn’t with them anymore. 

At eleven and twelve, they shared their first kiss. It was winter, and Marco had pushed Jean down a snowy hill in his plastic sled disc. Jean screamed with glee the whole way down and sailed straight into a hedgerow. Marco careened down the hill after him, shouting Jean’s name in a panic. The hedgerow wriggled and shook, but Jean was stuck. After double and triple checking to make sure that Jean was okay, Marco’s face split into a grin as he hovered over Jean. High, boyish laughter erupted from them both. When Jean suppressed his laughter to giggles, Marco leaned down, plunged his head into the shrub, and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips. It didn’t last two seconds, but it left both of them grinning at each other hard enough to make their cheeks hurt. 

The first time they made love was at fourteen and fifteen. They’d found a couple of skin magazines in Jean’s stepbrother’s bedroom, and spent a hot Saturday afternoon flicking through them in the clubhouse. After twenty minutes of tight silence, punctuated only by the occasional cleared throat or sigh, Marco looked over to see Jean shifting uncomfortably, crossing and uncrossing his legs. With a devious smirk (that he’d secretly copied from Jean), Marco sat up and straddled Jean’s lap as he sat in his bean bag chair. Jean dropped his magazine with a groan at the contact. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then Jean moved up and covered Marco’s mouth with his, almost shyly.

It was awkward and painful, since neither of them had any idea what they were supposed to be doing. Despite Marco’s gentleness, Jean still swore that he was torn and whined for the rest of the afternoon. He told his apologetic boyfriend that he’d better get his hands on some lube for next time. Marco smiled at him and hummed contentedly to himself, thinking that he ought to do a bit of research. 

At seventeen and eighteen, they went to prom together. Their entire group of friends had pooled their money and rented a big stretch limo for the evening, and Ymir and Connie had smuggled in wine. Jean wore solid black, from his tie and shirt to his shoes (his socks were hot pink). Marco’s tuxedo and shirt were both black as well, but his tie was a match to Jean’s socks. Jean stole the dance floor with a flawless reenactment of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ and then kissed Marco breathless in front of their entire graduating class. Their friends whistled and howled at them, and Marco learned later that Bertholdt casually elbowed a nay-sayer in the face. 

Eighteen and nineteen brought them to college. Their parents helped to set them up in an apartment five minutes from the campus. Marco studied Chinese and Jean ended up going for photography. Despite the stress of college and part time jobs, they were still unable to keep their hands off of one another. Jean was frequently driven wild by Marco’s subtle teasing and would haul him into a closet or behind a dusty bookshelf and make him bite his knuckles to keep quiet.

At twenty-six and twenty-seven, they were married. They moved into the city where they could both easily find work. Every Thursday night was date night, and weekends were usually spent nude and in bed, unless their friends were over. Marco was a constant interruption in Jean’s darkroom; he had a habit of walking in completely nude, carrying fresh brownies or cookies or some other heavenly pastry that Jean couldn’t say no to eating straight off of his husband’s stomach.

At forty-six and forty-seven, Jean now required glasses and Marco had developed a slight paunch. They now owned a house just outside of the city. Never adopting any children, they’d been able to live more than comfortably; evidence of their frugality was displayed in the form of photos on their mantle. A kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower, Jean being chewed upon by a camel in Egypt, Marco smiling with his Chinese students atop the Great Wall. They’d seen the world, and they weren’t done yet. 

Curled up on the couch and watching Labyrinth for the nine-hundredth time, Jean slid his hand up Marco’s thigh, a cheeky smirk on his face. With a happy sigh, Marco straddled Jean’s lap and removed his glasses. 

"Promise me something, Jean," he whispered. Jean looked up at him, his golden eyes still hazy with the same lust he’d felt as a teenager, so many long, wonderful years ago.

"Don’t ever keep your hands to yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah I like this one a lot. I'm rather pleased with how it came out, I hope you like it too c:


	5. Bad Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco is good at writing. Jean is not, but he's got his own, cracked out way with words that Marco appreciates nonetheless.
> 
> Prompt: Red

Marco had always had a way with words. Poetry came as naturally to him as breathing. He could write short stories and novels with relative ease, never losing concentration (except when Jean would purposely play guitar right in front of him, because those fingers were enough to make a nun sweat). He found inspiration everywhere, and never had a trouble with endings. 

He was always leaving Jean little notes around the house; they were usually taped to one of Jean’s guitars so that he would actually find them. Jean, upon finding them, would seek Marco out and kiss him silly, usually scattering the papers he was writing on to sprawl himself on the desk. 

Occasionally, Jean would attempt to return the favour; he relished in life’s cheesy pickup lines, and would scatter them around the house every so often. He would then hide in the shadows or in a corner and watch as Marco read them, and he would cackle to himself and then pounce on his boyfriend.

But today was Valentine’s day, which was, in Jean’s book, the greatest excuse to be as tacky as possible. Marco was expecting a trail of rose petals leading to the bedroom, culminating in a nude Jean wearing his glasses and reading Shakespearean sonnets. Dropping his keys into the bowl next to the door, he wandered into their kitchen. Jean was no where around, but Marco shrugged and pulled a water bottle from the fridge. He toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks and nudged them under the table with his foot.

He left the kitchen and made his way down the hall toward their bedroom, thinking that if Jean were in the shower, he just might have to slip in and join him.Their bedroom door was closed, and there was a little note taped to it. He padded up to the door and read Jean’s untidy scrawl.

“ _Roses are red, violets are blue. Sugar is sweet, I’ll fuck you through a wall._ ”

His eyes widened and he brought a hand to his lips. His cheeks flushed with colour and his stomach stirred at the imagery his brain conjured. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt an arm wrap around his waist and a palm at his crotch.

"Am I as good at writing as you are now?" Jean whispered huskily into his ear. Jean’s other arm worked its way up Marco’s side, up his throat and around his neck to gently turn his head to the side.

"You’re a master of seduction, Jean," Marco murmured. He then captured Jean’s lips in a bruising kiss, pleased when his face flushed a dark crimson at his normally calm lover’s passion. 

_Happy Valentine’s Day indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this. i don't even have any words for this except that i'm sorry. i'll go commit seppuku now.


	6. Road to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hear a song on the radio  
> And it sounds like something I miss  
> But, I don't need those old melodies  
> With you on my lips  
> \-- Road to You; Five for Fighting
> 
> Prompt: Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO [THIS RIGHT HERE](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSK3G9zGHN4) WHILE READING.
> 
> That song inspired this, and obviously [this is what Marco was playing.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1GK1nNi8Hk&list=FLXmFoVCta_OzfKB2PoeBe4w&index=34)

He was born running, a goal set sharp in his mind. He saw everything in vibrant colours, sharp and clear. He had a set path, and it was bright, the whole thing illuminated by the sun. By his sun, the one he knew was waiting for him at the end of it all. The road was long and winding, but he knew that when he rounded the last corner, that final curve, his sun would finally shine right on him. 

He knew that staying in one place, he would never reach his goal. Staying with one person, a person he knew wasn’t right for him, would never see him reach his goal. Armin let him go with a kiss and a wish for his happiness. The blond would always be special to him, but they both knew that something essential was just not there. So he dropped out of college, packed his duffel bag, and bought himself a bus ticket to no where. 

He’d wake up at every stop, a song in his head and in his heart, on his lips and drummed out through his fingers. It reminded of everything he was missing and of the road he traveled. He scoured the internet on his phone at a free wifi cafe, listened to every piece of classical music he could find; none of it was a match to his song. 

He drifted from city to town, crisscrossing the country, listening to this song that wasn’t. He lived on trains and subway systems. He was often mistaken for a homeless vagrant. A wanderer he was, and perhaps he was a fool, but homeless he was not. He had a home. His home was at the end of this winding road, waiting for him with open arms. He knew it,  _felt it_ , even if he didn’t know what it was. 

In a subway station in a busy city, he passed half a dozen musicians; guitar or trumpet cases open and the bottoms littered with the spare change that people thought they wouldn’t miss. He boarded his train and stared out the window at a lone cellist perched on a bench, playing his two-tone instrument. His case, unlike the others, was not open before him, luring in the stray bits of coin from strangers; it was tucked under the bench. 

He found his wandering feet moving of their own accord, and he didn’t wonder why; he’d long ago learned to trust his body, trust his instincts, trust in the song.

The moment his foot stepped off the train, back onto the platform, the cellist’s song shifted into another. It was a song that he’d never heard before and yet it was as familiar to him as his own reflection. He wanted to run, wanted to stay still and listen to the song that had followed him all of his journey. He wanted to close his eyes to fight the blinding light he was suddenly faced with, but he couldn’t stop staring; he was like a blind man that stared at the sun, aware that his eyes watered, but knowing that he would walk away unscathed. 

But in a heartbeat he found himself standing before the cellist that played with the sole intent of sharing his beautiful gift with the busy throngs of the city’s inhabitants. He stared at the fingers that he knew he’d never touched, shivering as he remembered the feel of them on his skin. He saw the arms that had never waved at him, feeling warm as he recalled how they would wrap around him every night. He drank in the smile he’d never returned before and he smiled back, big and whole and bright.

"Hey, Marco," he breathed. 

Warm brown eyes crinkled in happiness and he released his instrument, letting it rest against his shoulder. 

"Jean." 

He knelt on the bench next to this man, his endgame, his sun, his song. He gently grasped the cello and moved it so that it was resting against the wall, stable and unwavering. Marco turned to him, their grins identical and so wide that their faces hurt. He held his face in his hands, thumbs brushing over exactly fifty-three freckles that he’d never seen before, and he kissed him. He kissed his song and he knew that he’d be able to hear it, see it, feel it, every day for the rest of his life. His song was this tangible person, tanned and freckled and warm. 

He’d always been told that he could take any road he wanted in life, but he’d only ever seen one. He only ever saw Marco.

 


	7. What Am I Supposed To Do Without You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco is gone, and Jean's friends must try to pick their broke friend back up.

It had been three weeks. Twenty one days of an empty, cold bed. Jean still cooked enough food for two people, only to angrily fling the rest of it into the trash. 

He felt like the apartment echoed when he walked in and shut the door. It all looked darker, and he swore there were cobwebs in the corners. Armin brings by food for him and makes sure he eats it. He tidies up a bit (because Jean can't be bothered to put his own clothes in the closet that still has some of Marco's) and spends some time in the apartment with him, just being another presence there for a while.

Eren called him and attempted to engage him in their usual friendly banter. Jean told him to fuck off and snapped his phone shut. Ymir and Annie came by and offered to get him drunk enough that he couldn't remember his own name, let alone Marco's. He did drink with them for the evening, but he stupidly wore one of Marco's scarves and ended up drunkenly sobbing into it for three and a half hours. 

Bertholdt and Mikasa stopped by one day wielding blankets, and they made a Jean-wich on the couch and watched Lord of the Rings with him. A few days later, Reiner and Connie arrived with Grand Theft Auto V and an armful of giant Pixie Stix. Sasha and Christa took him out and bought him an inordinate amount of junk food, most of which Sasha ate. 

He was grateful that his friends tried so hard to get his mind off of Marco, off of the loneliness that he felt. It just wasn't enough.

There was a hole in his life, a dark fissure that went on for miles, and he didn't think it would--

"Jean, have you  _really_  been this pathetic for three whole weeks?" 

His head snapped up from where he'd had his nose pressed against the paper, writing truly terrible, teen-angst-style poetry. He hadn't heard anyone enter the house (which was probably because Simple Plan was being played at full volume), but Marco was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed. Jean scrambled to his feet and launched himself at Marco, nearly knocking the taller man over.

"Armin told me everything," Marco murmured against his neck.

"I don't care, I missed you," Jean said. Smiling, knowing that he would never win this battle, Marco just wrapped his arms around Jean's waist and held him close.

"I missed you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS.
> 
> really I don't know what I was thinking. it was a lot funnier in my head and if I could draw more than half a crooked line you'd see how funny it is.
> 
> but i can't so you're all stuck with this. my sincerest apologies.
> 
> HAPPY JEANMARCO WEEK, DARLINGS <3


End file.
